


oh joy, oh rapture unforeseen

by Damkianna



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: Extra Treat, Fake Marriage, Gen, Hints of Marcus Cole/Stephen Franklin, M/M, Paperwork Mishaps, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 04:54:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8432581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: Stephen and Marcus return safely from their mission on Mars, but there's one teeny tiny little problem: their personal status in the station database has been ... updated.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mimm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimm/gifts).



> Not _quite_ the accidentally-actually-married story you asked for, Mimm, but hopefully still enjoyable! Happy ToT. :D
> 
> (The title is, naturally, a [Gilbert and Sullivan lyric](http://www.allthelyrics.com/lyrics/gilbert_and_sullivan/oh_joy_oh_rapture_unforeseen-lyrics-1148347.html).)

 

 

Their spaceliner from Mars arrived at Babylon 5 in the middle of station's night, and Stephen felt it: he was yawning as he shuffled down the corridor toward his quarters, rubbing tiredly at his eyes as the door opened.

What a trip—but over now, and wasn't that a relief? They hadn't managed to blow the mission for Sheridan or get themselves killed, and they hadn't killed each other, either. No matter how tempted Stephen had been at times.

But at last he was back in his own familiar quarters, everything just where he'd left it—the vase on the counter, chairs tucked in neatly, Babcom notification flashing, card on the table—

Stephen blinked. Card on the table?

Maybe some kind of "welcome back" thing. He shook his head and yawned again, shuffling just close enough to the table to snag the card before he passed it heading for the Babcom screen. The flash was steady, slow; probably just the one message waiting for him, then.

The front of the card was pretty nondescript—looked a lot like the one the station habitation staff had left when he'd first arrived on B5, come to think of it. _CONGRATULATIONS_ was printed on it, though, not _WELCOME TO BABYLON 5_. And congratulations was a little weird. Then again, maybe they didn't have any _HOPE YOU HAD A GOOD TIME ON YOUR COVERT MISSION_ cards in stock.

Stephen snorted to himself at the thought and thumbed the Babcom button absently before he flipped the card open, to see—

" _First things first: I hope you had a safe trip_ ," Ivanova said on the Babcom recording, all business; and then, as if from very far away, Stephen heard her clear her throat. " _And I want you to know I had nothing to do with this. I almost wish I had_ ," she added, ruminative, and Stephen glanced up automatically to see the expression of mock thoughtfulness she'd put on her face. " _I wouldn't mind getting to take the credit. But it's actually down to the database_."

 _TO MR AND MR FRANKLIN-COLE_ , the inside of the card blared—continued to blare, stubbornly, even after Stephen read it two more times.

" _We receive automatic updates_ ," Susan explained, tone very dry. " _You used false names for your_ ," and she cleared her throat again, pointedly, before concluding, " _cover. But not fake ID pictures. The station's system uses face matching to update personnel files, so misspellings can't muck things up_." She took on a sober, severe expression to say, " _You could never have kept it a secret very long_."

Stephen grimaced. "I hate you, Susan," he told the screen, another yawn hitting halfway through.

Susan, of course, was unmoved. " _Long story short—you know how hard up we are for space, Stephen_." For the first time, she actually looked a little apologetic. " _The change to your status meant you were automatically both assigned to the larger set of quarters, which is yours. And Marcus's have already been reassigned. It's going to take me some time to reverse it_ —"

"Halt playback," Stephen said, and Ivanova's face froze partway between amusement and chagrin.

He glanced back down at the card. The larger set of quarters—and of course that had been his; Marcus had probably finagled himself a broom closet somewhere, and lived a life of blissful Ranger asceticism to an upbeat selection of soundtracks from classic musicals. Stephen huffed half a laugh through his nose and rolled his eyes. And now—

He looked up at Susan's still face, and then at the door. Marcus's code, his ID, must not have been any good when he'd tried to get into his quarters, if they'd already been auto-reassigned. Which, knowing Marcus, meant he was—what? Doing Ranger exercises somewhere in the dark, or sleeping standing up in a corner.

Stephen closed his eyes and pressed the stiff cardstock against his forehead. Marcus was _fine_ , he was a grown man, if he wanted to sleep on the floor it was no business of Stephen's—

"Dammit," Stephen muttered, and he tossed the card onto the counter and strode back out the door, already trying to guess where Marcus might be.

 

*

 

The answer turned out to be Downbelow, which shouldn't have been a surprise; Stephen had a vague memory of Marcus having lived there before, when he hadn't had quarters to himself yet. Which was ridiculous, and once he'd found Marcus, he took no pains in telling him so.

"For your information," Marcus said primly, "I've slept much worse places, and with much less pleasant neighbors."

"Oh, I believe it," Stephen said, flat, and shook his head. "But I'm not leaving you down here."

"Stephen—"

"I'm _not_ ," Stephen snapped. "Keep your stupid self-sacrificing arguments to yourself, and get up. It's well past midnight, I know exactly how tired you are right now because I'm just as tired myself, and I'm not in the mood to fight about this."

Marcus was looking at him a little warily, eyes wide and dark, hair mussed; and just when Stephen was starting to think he'd actually taken Stephen's words seriously, his mouth quirked. "Yes," he murmured, "I suppose that's not the way to start off our honeymoon."

"Damn right it's not," Stephen said, instead of taking issue with Marcus's choice of words, because he'd meant it: this wasn't the time for a fight. "Now come on."

 

*

 

"I did find it a bit strange that my door wouldn't open for me," Marcus observed, as they came up the corridor toward Stephen's quarters.

"Did you," Stephen muttered.

"Yes, it was rather disconcerting. And therefore an opportunity, of course," Marcus added. "To confront the unexpected, at a less-than-ideal moment; to ruminate on the trust we place in technology, on my unthinking assumption that the door should and always would open—"

"That's it, I've changed my mind," Stephen said, and then gave it the lie by swiping his door open, waving Marcus inside with one hand and pinching the bridge of his nose with the other.

Except, of course, Marcus never did take the path of least resistance. He'd been happy enough to follow Stephen up here, chattering away blithely; but, actively encouraged onward, he slowed and then stopped.

He was looking at Stephen oddly again, and Stephen wished he'd cut it out. Something about how late it was, about the way his eyes looked in the dim lighting and the softness to the line of his shoulders—fatigue, had to be, because Marcus was a fighting man and usually stood like one, braced and ready—

Something about it all was playing hell with the pit of Stephen's stomach. And he didn't want to think about it; he just wanted to go to _sleep_.

"Marcus, will you just—"

"You really don't have to do this, you know," Marcus said quietly. "I do appreciate it, Stephen—don't think I don't. But this is just a mistake. I'm sure it'll be sorted out in a day or two, and I've slept in Downbelow before. This is not your problem."

And the thing was, he wasn't wrong. Or—he shouldn't have been. Stephen had thought it himself not twenty minutes ago: Marcus was a grown man who could sleep where he pleased. He was Stephen's friend, but not Stephen's husband, no matter what the damn card said.

But Stephen looked at Marcus standing there in the corridor, waiting to be left, and discovered to his own surprise that he couldn't find it in himself to do the leaving.

"I let you stay in Downbelow, you throw your back out, and it becomes my problem," Stephen said, and motioned again, impatiently, to the door. "If I can put up with your Gilbert and Sullivan, I can put up with your snoring—"

"Oh, I don't snore," Marcus assured him brightly. "Or kick." He adopted a mildly apologetic expression. "I _am_ told that my hair rather—tickles—"

 _Is that so_ , Stephen didn't say; and he also definitely didn't look at Marcus's hair, or imagine what it would be like to wake up with his face in it. "Yeah, well, I'm not ticklish," Stephen told him instead, flat, and waved his hand one more time.

And, at last, it worked: Marcus ducked his head obediently and went in, and Stephen rolled his eyes a final time at the ceiling in the corridor and then followed.

 

 


End file.
